Will & Patrick Wake Up Married (2 page)

“Dr. Patrick McCloud.”

A doctor. He’s picked up and had sex with some doctor from the conference. What the hell is wrong with him? “Oh my God…” Will scrubs at his face.

“Hey, that sounds familiar.” Patrick sits on the edge of the bed with one leg tucked underneath him. “I remember you chanting that last night.”

“Could you put some pants on?” Will begs. “Please.”

Patrick smirks, shifting on the bed so his groin is even more prominently displayed in Will’s line of sight. “It’s starting to come back to me. We had sex. Lots and lots of sex.”

Will takes a deep breath. “It was a mistake. All of it. I don’t
do
things like this!”

“I know you don’t.” Patrick turns serious. “I remember you telling me your ex was basically your first. Your only.”

“Ryan,” Will whispers, shaking his head. “He’ll never forgive me.” He bites his lip so he won’t cry.

Patrick says his name like it’s a dirty word. “
Ryan
is an asshole.”

Will’s head snaps up. This man, this
Dr. McCloud
, has seduced him and ruined his life, and now he’s talking trash about Ryan? “You don’t even know him.”

“He dumped you. Over the phone. Hate to break it to you, but I think he’s just not that into you.”

Will shifts uncomfortably, the world goes a little topsy-turvy again, and his stomach lurches. He forces himself still until it passes and keeps his eyes averted. “He needs some space—that’s just how Ryan is. You don’t know him.” He clutches his sore head. “You don’t know anything about Ryan and me.”

“Oh-ho, yes I do. You’re a mouthy drunk. You spilled all the sordid details last night.”

Will jerks backward.

“Oh, yes.” Patrick shifts and scratches at his thigh. Will stares at Patrick’s long fingers, suddenly remembering them shoved in his ass. Jesus, it had felt incredible.

Patrick lips quirk as though he can read Will’s mind. His left hand comes up to scratch idly at his chest and flakes off what appears to be dried come.

Will is mortified to realize that it’s probably his, or maybe a mixture of theirs, and then his eyes are arrested by the gold, shining band on the guy’s left ring finger. “Oh my God. You’re married.” Vomit starts up his throat and he chokes it back with a swallow of water.

Patrick startles and stares at his hand.

Will scrubs at his face again. “This can’t be happening. I’d never do this. I’d
never
sleep with a married man. This is a joke. Don’t tell me, let me guess: you’re married to a woman. Does she even know you’re gay? Are you that deep in the closet?”

“I’m
not
married to a woman,” Patrick says, and his voice is so serious and low that Will goes silent and still. “And either you’re being more than a little hypocritical, or…”

That’s when Will notices the unfamiliar weight on his finger. He holds his hand up and the room tilts sideways.

“Oh my God.” In a whoosh of tumbling horror, Will remembers it all.
No, no, this can’t be happening.
“We got married.”

Patrick presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, shaking his head furiously. “For the love of—oh, you’ve got to… For the record,
this
cannot be happening.”

Patrick is finally on board the panic train and Will’s ready to ride it with him, but his vision goes spotty and his mouth numb. He moans. A rushing noise hits his ears, and then there’s darkness.
 

For a day that started out pretty great, what with waking up with his face buried in a hot guy’s furry pecs, it’s all going downhill fast. Bullet train fast.

First, said hot guy freaks out and accuses him of rape. Patrick remembers clearly how Will had
begged
for it last night, and, sure, drunken consent is basically no consent, but they’d both been smashed out of their minds, so if anything they’d raped
each other
. Over and over. And enjoyed it the entire time.

Then
the guy turns out to be a total prude when sober. A prude who freaks out about an even more prudish ex-boyfriend who sounds like an utter asshole. And Patrick knows from assholes, being one himself.

And then Patrick finds out that he’s gone and
married
the idiot.
Why?
Why would he do such a thing? He doesn’t know. He hasn’t remembered that part yet. Surely there’s a good explanation, like someone held a gun to his head. If anyone was roofied here, it was clearly him. He’s categorically opposed to marriage, in all its forms and guises.

He doesn’t even have a pre-nup signed. This pretty piece of ass could take him for everything he’s worth. And he’s a neurosurgeon, so he’s worth a lot. At least they’d used condoms. He remembers rolling them on, and a quick glance toward the trash can shows that, yes, there are six in there. Christ, no wonder his balls are killing him.

A sharp memory takes his breath away.

Will’s bent over the bed, taking Patrick’s slamming cock, saying, “Everyone says married sex is boring, but this...this is amazing!”

Patrick fucks Will even harder then, grunting at the tight grip of his ass and the slap-slap of their sweaty skin. “Yeah, who knew?” And he comes, bending down to bite Will’s shoulder as he shoots his load.

Now, as the cherry on the crap-cake, his new spouse has suddenly gone gray and passed out.

The medic alert bracelet Patrick finds on Will’s right wrist indicates he’s a Type 1 diabetic and the binge drinking his blushing bride had engaged in the prior night was a fool’s move. A cold prickle races over Patrick’s skin. He’d been too drunk to notice the bracelet either. Sure, it’s an expensive, fancy one, designed to be unobtrusive unless there’s an emergency, but he’s a goddamn doctor. He should have noticed.

“Hey,” Patrick shouts, tapping Will’s cheek. “Hey. Wake up.”

Will opens warm brown eyes and looks just as shocked as the first time. He starts to move, and Patrick encourages him. “Sit up.”

Will does as he’s told. “Did I pass out?”

“For a few seconds. Where’s your kit?” Patrick looks around the room for anything resembling a glucose test kit. “You need to test your blood sugar. Is the meter in your room? Since I didn’t see an insulin pump site on you last night, I guess you take injections.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Do you take your long lasting insulin at night or in the morning?”

“Uh, night.”

“Did you take it last night?”

“I think so? I don’t know.”

Patrick sees a small bag on the floor by the unfamiliar jeans, wadded-up buttoned shirt, and boxers. “Is that murse yours?”

“What?”

“That man-purse. It’s yours. Do you keep your meter in it? Test strips?” Without waiting for an answer he crosses over and opens it. “Bingo.” He tosses the bag on the bed. “Test yourself.”

“Leave me alone. I’m just tired. Need a nap. I’m fine.”

“Ain’t that just jolly news? The last thing I need is a strange guy I’m married to collapsing into a coma in my hotel room due to diabetic hypoglycemia.”

Will doesn’t reply but does get the meter out of his back and test himself. “I’m low. Thirty-five.” He looks like he’s going to slip unconscious again.

“You need some glucose. Drink this.” Patrick grabs a bottle of juice from the mini fridge and watches as Will drinks half of it down.

Giving the benefit of the doubt isn’t something that Patrick does often or well, but maybe Will doesn’t know that binge drinking is off-limits for him. After all, the clowns-to-competent-doctors ratio is pretty high; it’s possible that Will is unfortunate enough to be seeing a Bozo.

“You need to test again when you’ve finished that. See if you need more glucose or if it’s time to stabilize you with some fats and protein.” Patrick heads to the fridge, pulling out a second bottle of orange juice and tossing it to Will. Then he grabs a fancily wrapped block of cheese from the fridge and the carton of whole-wheat crackers from the basket of snacks.

“Thanks,” Will murmurs. He blushes and looks away.

Patrick nods toward the medic alert bracelet on Will’s wrist. “Drinking like you did last night is dangerous.”

Will takes a large swallow of the orange juice. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

So, benefit of the doubt is unnecessary. As usual.

Using a knife to cut small hunks, Patrick quickly builds a few cracker sandwiches. He watches Will test again and is relieved when the number is significantly improved.

“I shouldn’t drink for a lot of reasons.”

Will’s color is getting better and he’s more lucid. Patrick hands him the cracker sandwiches. “Eat up. Chug-a-lug.”

Will remains silent, obviously panicking as he chews and swallows the last bite of cracker and cheese. Patrick sits beside him on the bed, and, taking Will’s left hand, tests him a third time just to be sure. “Eight-three,” Patrick mutters. “Good. Crisis averted.”

Will sucks on his pricked finger, not making eye contact while Patrick takes in the evidence of Will’s workout regimen—firm abs and strong shoulders, v-ing down to slim hips. His short hair glows gold in the light from the windows, and his nicely formed pecs are liberally dusted with blond hair. Will strikes him as pretty, even though he’s taller and larger than Patrick. He can’t be more than twenty-six, farm fed and, if memory from the night before serves, normally rosy cheeked. He isn’t rosy cheeked now.

Patrick cuts to the chase. “FYI, I don’t have any STDs. And condoms were used. I know what you told me last night about your ex being your only. But you also told me about the shady meet-cute with his new boyfriend.”

“He’s not with Hartley like that.”

“That’s not what you thought last night.”

“Shut up.”

“All I’m saying is if he’s been dipping the wick in some other pot of wax, it’s possible you might be carrying something you’re not aware of yet.”

Will’s eyes blaze. “No. That’s impossible.”

Patrick lifts a brow. “Oh, right, because your ex wasn’t much of a lover, right? It’s been, what did you say? Six months since you last got any?”

Will shakes his head but says nothing as he blushes.

It’s this Ryan idiot’s loss, really. Will’s a great lay. “Regardless, we should both keep an eye out for any difficulties down below, like pain or blood in the urine or—”

“Let me guess, you’re a urologist?”

“No, I’m a neurosurgeon.”

Will snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

Patrick’s not sure why he’s offended. Maybe because now that they both remember all the ways Patrick made Will come, he expects a little respect?

“What? I don’t look like a neurosurgeon to you?”

“You look…you look…” Will evaluates him. “Like you still aren’t wearing any pants.” He covers his face again like he hasn’t been at the receiving end of the cock he’s so scared to look at. “Please. Hand me my clothes. I have to get out of here.”

“You need to eat the rest of that food before you do anything else. I’m a doctor.”

“That means I have to do what you say?” Will snaps.

Patrick takes pity on him and pulls on his boxer-briefs and jeans before tossing Will’s clothes over.

“There. Since you’re so uncomfortable with nudity, maybe this will cheer you up and we can figure out the first step to extricating ourselves from this mess.”

Will drains the bottle of OJ before he wriggles under the covers to pull on his underwear and pants in prudish privacy. “I’m sure you noticed my bracelet last night. Why didn’t you seem concerned about my drinking then?”

Will’s on the bed on his hands and knees. Patrick pounds into him as he rubs up and down his back over and over. A strange, possessive thought fills him: he’s mine now and I have to take good care of him.

Patrick shrugs the memory away and answers Will. “You wear one of those dangerous, fancy-pants bracelets instead of the traditional medic alert. If you weren’t so vain and trying to hide your disease, I’d have noticed instantly and none of this,” he gestures between them, “would have happened. As for last night, I drank too much and wasn’t thinking clearly.” Patrick holds up his hand, waggling his ring finger. “Obviously.”